A Night In A Turkish Whorehouse

I spent a good deal of the early 80’s in the part of the Middle East known as the ‘Levant’ – Lebanon, Israel mostly, plus a few sides trips to places like Egypt and Turkey. It was during this time that I developed an appreciation for Middle-Eastern women with their thick, dark hair, their flashing, almond-shaped deep brown eyes, their olive complexions. And of course those full bodied figures; hips like a pair of battleships, and knockers that never quit. The girls in that part of the world are built to breed. You never have to worry about falling out of the saddle with one of those mamas; they can take a rough ride and come back for more. Terrific women. World class.

In September 1985 my work took me to Turkey for a couple of weeks. Toward the end of my stay there I had an exotic adventure one night in the Souk Kabeer – the Grand Bazaar of Istanbul.

I had finished my work and was getting ready to leave Turkey in a couple of days. In other words, it was playtime. A German guy I was working with, Hans, and myself were following the advice one of the women at the American embassy had given us. We went out to explore the Grand Bazaar. The Grand Bazaar is a rabbit’s warren of shops jammed packed next to one another, situated along a seemingly endless maze of narrow streets and alleys. The place dates back to the Byzantine era and it looks like it. The entire complex is walled in and in most places covered. A sort of ancient civilization version of a modern-day shopping mall.

It was late afternoon by the time we got there. I didn’t have a lot of money on me and we didn’t have a lot of time to kill. We strolled through the street of rug merchants, the street of brass workers, the street of jewelers and goldsmiths. We came to a barbershop and decided it was a good time for a haircut.

The barbershop was an experience in itself. It was a hole in the wall joint with barely enough room for the two old-fashioned barber chairs and a bench on the side for customer waiting their turn. The walls were papered with posters advertising all sorts of products, from batteries to cars to the local brand of ice cream, and an odd collection of newspaper articles featuring President Reagan. Old Ron-Bomb was making quite an impression in that part of the world in those days, and so this did not seem out of place or unusual. There was nobody waiting so the barbers sat us down and went right to work. They didn’t speak a word of English or any other of the handful of languages that Hans and I had between us, so it was all sign language and unintelligible phrases. I ended up getting a severe trim that looked like a Marine haircut and then the guy shaved me with a straight razor, like something out of a mafia film. Then he cleaned me off with a hot towel and he shaved me a second time. Hans had his moustache trimmed and for about the millionth time in my life I wished I could grow a big bushy mo like everyone else in the Middle East. We paid the guy, then went outside to explore the souk some more.

The air was getting cooler and the shadows were growing long. Already most of the narrow streets and passageways were quite dark. Dusk was coming on and most of the shopkeepers were beginning to shutter up their shops by the time we stumbled upon the bar.

The place was a simple whitewashed room with Formica-topped folding tables. It was crowded and noisy, full of Turkish men with their thick black moustaches. They all wore crumpled white shirts and heavy wool gray suits and they smoked like chimneys. They were drinking arak. I’d heard of the stuff before, in books written by guys like Somerset Maugham and Ernest Hemingway, but this was my first introduction to the arak experience. Wish I knew then what I know now. Hans and I sat down. A heavy-set Turk who looked anywhere from forty to sixty-five sat on the other side of the table. We nodded with the same tough-guy frown this guy gave us, and when the proprietor came up, we both indicated the same thing he was drinking, a clear glass bottle the size of a coke bottle containing a clear liquid.

“Arak?”

“Yeah. Arak.”

The big Turk on the other side of the table lit up a cigarette and ignored us. Then the proprietor returned with our bottles, two glasses containing chunks of ice obviously hacked off a larger block, and a small jug of water. I tossed a few drachma or lire or whatever the currency is over there on the table and we were on our way.

I guess arak is a type of anisette liqueur, along the lines of that god-awful stuff they drink in the south of France. Whatever it’s made of, it’s got a liquorice taste to it and it turns into a white liquid when water is poured into it. A twelve-ounce bottle of the stuff cost us about fifty cents.

What I didn’t get from reading all those novels was the kick this stuff has. It sort of sneaks up on you. Hans and I were knocking the stuff back like it was kool-aid and ordering more bottles. Before I knew it there were ten or twelve empties on the table. My head was pounding, I had a taste like gacky cough medicine down the back of my throat and the room was beginning to spin. “Hans,” I said, “ we gotta get outta here. I need some fresh air.”

“Yah, John, dot’s a good idea.” I threw a few more shekels or whatever they were on the table and we stumbled out of the place, back into the souk, now dark and cold.

We staggered along the damp cobblestones, trying to keep our balance. That arak really hit home hard, but as hard as it hit it seemed to be wearing off pretty fast, too. My head seemed quite clear in the cold night air. We tried to keep straight as we walked past what appeared to be a police station, and then somehow we ended up stumbling into an open doorway that led us up a flight of stairs and into a large, darkened room full of tables and chairs and filled with Turkish men and women.

At first I thought it was just another bar. Then I noticed that all the women in the place were all wearing nothing but lingerie beneath these long flowing nightgowns made of sheer diaphanous material. It was pretty obvious what sort of a place we had stumbled upon. We found a couple of seats at a table. The proprietor came up, a fat guy in a white apron. I told him the only word I know in Turkish. “Arak.” At the time I wished I knew how to order a beer, but in retrospect it probably saved my life that I didn’t mix grain with whatever it is they make that ungodly stuff out of. He came back with the little bottles, the glasses and the water and we paid him.

Like I said, my head had cleared up from our little walk down the street, and I could now take in the scenery around us from a fairly straight point of view. I noticed quite a few police officers about the place, but this is not unusual in Third World whorehouses. Either they’re there getting paid to provide security or they’re picking up their payola.

The girls were all around the place. Some sat at tables with the customers, drinking and smoking and playing backgammon. Others hung off the bar, waiting to be summoned. They all wore variations of the same outfit – bras and panties, with lots of bare skin covered more or less by open and revealing negligees. Some of the girls wore thigh high stockings, which was a nice touch, and all of them wore these dainty little high-heeled slippers. I even noticed a couple of girls in the traditional belly dancer costumes; see-thru genie pants and be-sequined brassieres and panties, cut very low. A couple of the girls lay back on the sofa beds lining the wall, sharing a hookah - the water pipe that the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland smoked. Reclining with their gowns falling from their bare bodies, they resembled an old Victorian engraving of the girls in the sultan’s harem.

A couple of the whores came up to join us.

These girls weren’t half-bad looking. Like I said before, I’ve developed a taste for Middle Eastern women and this pair were prime specimens. The long flowing brown hair, full lips and dark flashing eyes. Both the girls were full bodied, with their large pendulous breasts barely contained in the cups of their brassieres, which were cut so low you could easily see the tops of their brown nipples. Neither of them made the slightest effort to contain their treasures; they were obviously displaying what they had to their greatest advantage. Clad as they were in their filmy robes, it was easy to appraise the full package. Narrow waists that flared out into generous hips and nice, well formed legs. Hans and I ordered a round of arak for the ladies and we started to party. The lack of a common language was hardly an obstacle.

Well, not allowing the spoken language to be a barrier we proceeded into some pretty serious non-verbal communication in short order. We paired off, and pretty soon I was holding hands under the table with my whore and looking deep into the lipid pools that were her eyes, and Hans was doing the same with his girl. He was luckier than me because it seemed that the girls understood some German, a tongue that’s not in my repertoire. He and his girl were getting on like a house on fire. I took solace in the fact that my whore was better looking, and slimmer around the middle.

My girl was, in fact, quite stunning. She had the olive skin and the dark hair but with her looks she could have come from anywhere in Europe or North America. She had a cute little nose and a sweet smile. She reminded me of the kind of girl you’d see in a French maid outfit, very pert and coquettish. I guessed her age at about thirty. Under the table she ran her fingers along my palm and squeezed my hand. It wasn’t long before her fingernails were tracing a line along my thigh and making their way up to my crotch, where she stroked my now rock hard dick through the tight denim of my jeans. Now I needed something more than the arak to quench a different kind of thirst that was growing in my craw. I smiled and she smiled and it was obvious that it was time to find out what the arrangements were in this place.

As German was the apparent lingua franca of the place, Hans did the talking with the fat man in the apron, and soon we were shuttled to a doorway in the back of the place and another dark flight of stairs. We peeled off some bills and paid the fat man, then followed the girls up the stairway, getting a great view of their undulating asscheeks along the way.

The stairs led up to a hallway with several doors which obviously led to the rooms. Some grunts and moans betrayed the activity in progress behind some of the doors. Hans and I split off with our respective whores, mine taking me by the hand and leading me to a door at the far end.

The room was small but featured a smaller room just to the left of the doorway; a little w.c. complete with a sink and a toilet. At least this fuckhouse had running water – I’ve been in worse. There was a bit of room around the bed, which was made up with what looked like clean linen, and a coat and hat rack standing in the corner. Now that we were out of the smoky atmosphere of the bar downstairs I could make out her scent – an exotic combination of jasmine and patchouli. A sensory reminder that I was away from the Western world and traveling along the spice roads of antiquity.

My hooker turned and smiled, holding both hands out from her sides, offering me the first full view all night. She was very nice. Her nightgown was fastened by a string at the neck but hung open all the way to the floor. The transparent garment wouldn’t have been able to conceal anything even if it had been a one-piece kaftan, but still it was nice to fully appreciate the quality of her wares. She wore a lacey lime green bra and panty set and a pair of white lace topped thigh high stockings. And of course the ubiquitous high-heeled slippers.

She was full and round in all the right places, but not fat at all. In fact, despite her well-rounded curves, it seemed she was almost muscular. Still holding my hands, she smiled sweetly, and then she began a sort of slow dance movement. A belly dance. I immediately understood the nature of her well-developed body.

The muscles of her belly undulated like waves as she slithered and swayed like a snake. She leaned back, still holding my hands as she slowly danced for me, thrusting her hips toward me. She rubbed her mound against the bulge in my jeans. I could hardly wait. I freed one hand to begin stripping what few garments she wore from her to get things started but she resisted me, smiling and wagging a finger, wordlessly saying ‘No, no, no! Not yet.’ Instead she turned me around so that now the bed was behind me. Still swaying from side to side and rippling the muscles across her abdomen she slowly sank to her knees, limbo-style. Then she let go of my hands and started unfastening my belt.

She undid the belt and pulled it free from my belt loops with a vigorous tug like she was starting a chainsaw, then she tossed it aside. Then she leaned forward, her face right against my crotch, and bit down on the tab on my zipper. Her eyes looking up at me, she slowly unzipped my fly with her teeth. Her hands went to stroke my dick through my shorts. I was very hard and pointing right up at the ceiling.

She tugged my jeans down with the same deliberate firmness, then my shorts went the same way as my jeans. They both landed in a heap over where my belt lay. My dick pointed straight out from me. My lady opened her mouth and without hesitation engulfed my pole in her lips.

What followed was one of the all time best blowjobs of my life. Cupping my ass cheeks in both hands, she proceeded to suck up and down on my shaft like the professional she was. The girl didn’t use her hands at all. Those full, red lips went to work as her head bobbed up and down on me like a hen on a June bug; she didn’t quit. The sensations were incredible. As she sucked I pulled off my sweatshirt and the t-shirt I wore beneath. I was fully naked before her, with my dick in her mouth, and she had yet to remove a single stitch.

Finally I grew weak in the knees. I reached behind me to place a hand on the mattress and slowly lowered myself to a seated position. The girl continued her sucking, head going up and down on my rod without missing a beat. I wanted to lie back to relax as she sucked me off. As I pulled myself back on the mattress to fully recline she climbed up with me, never removing her mouth from my rock-hard dick. Now she crouched over me on her hands and knees, her wet mouth working me up and down, up and down. The feeling was indescribable. I was very near to the end.

Finally I could take it no more; I needed to fuck this woman. I gently pulled her off my red-hot quivering pole and gently undid the knot that held her negligee about her neck. She leaned back, smiling that winning grin, and reached behind her to undo her bra, finally exposing her superb breasts. She held them cupped in her hands and kissed her nipples to hardness – she was large enough to do this without even straining her neck. I pulled her toward me and buried my face into her generous cleavage. The girl cradled my head to her and smiled as I paid homage to her nipples. As I licked and sucked I reached around her to cup her ass in my hands, and the started to pull at her panties. She said, “Ah!” and backed away from the bed. This magnificent creature peeled her panties down, then stood before me in full display, her hands on her hips and a wide grin on her face.

Like I said, I’d been around the Middle East before so it did not surprise me that she was shaved completely bald down there. It is the way of the girls in that part of the world. What occurred next was something new and different, however.

The girl returned to the bed, crawling on her hands and her knees. When I reached for her to pull her to me, however, she pulled away. I wanted to embrace her and feel those marvelous melons against my chest as I mounted her. The girl, it seemed had another idea.

She waved me away and turned away from me, arching her back and driving her round ass towards my crotch. I figured she wanted to be taken from behind, doggie-style. No problem. I got up on my knees and worked my dick up towards that shaved pussy. The head of my knob was knocking at those pussy lips, trying to get in.

Problem. The girl had her hand over her pussy and she was moving her ass back and forth so that I couldn’t get in. “Nein, nein,” she said. I know that much German. Figuring she was just another nutty whore, I tried to knock her hand aside and lay my John Thomas into her hole. She clamped her hand down tight on her pussy and squealed, “Nein, mein herr, NEIN!”

There followed a babble in German and Turkish and I was totally mystified. I mean, we were both naked in bed in a whorehouse, she was a whore, she had just sucked my dick for about thirty minutes and now that I was going to fuck her it was no-go. I could not, for the life of me, figure out what her problem was until I caught something to the tune of “Das ist fur kinder!” Then I caught on.

As a youngster I’d heard the stories from this part of the world. I’d read tales of the early English adventurers, even some their detailed descriptions of the sexual habits and customs practiced by the people in the lands that line the caravan routes. I had heard of their peculiar methods of birth control. What I could hardly believe was that I was encountering these bizarre traditions in this day and age, but it was becoming more and more obvious how she wanted to be taken.

She was face down into the pillows, her beautiful ass in the air with her hands pulling her butt cheeks apart offering me the tiny, puckered pink lips of her asshole. While I was grateful to see that she was clean in that place, I really didn’t want to go that way. So while her hands were on the sides of her butt and her pussy was free I made another lunge, targeting my dick right into her wet pussylips.

Big mistake. She hollered “NEIN!!! DAS IST VERBOTEN.” and a torrent that I couldn’t understand word for word but I could get the gist of. She knocked my dick aside then clamped her hand tight over her twat. With her other hand she waved toward the bedside table, indicating a bottle of massage oil there. There was to be no straight fucking in here tonight. Whether I wanted to or not, I was going in her backdoor.

What the hell, I thought, when in Rome. Or in this case, Byzantium. I picked up the bottle of oil and lubed up, then squirted a few drops into her brown eye, just for good measure. I was still a little uncertain about the whole thing, but it was too late to back out now. She looked clean so I guessed that if this is her way she must be in the habit of washing herself out down there pretty carefully. It was time to go in. I placed the head of my raging boner onto her asshole and slowly made my entry.

The feeling was not at all unpleasant. She was very tight back there, and very hot. As I worked my length into her inch-by-inch I looked around to see how she was taking it. The look on her face alternated between a grimace and a look of pleasure, so I just continued to ease myself in nice and slow. When I finally got my length into her I relaxed my efforts and enjoyed her hot tightness. Now it was her turn to drive her butt back onto me and wiggle it around, essentially screwing herself onto me.

With the lubrication from all that oil I was able to match her screw for screw, and soon she had relaxed her sphincter muscles enough to allow me to drive my length in and out of her tight butt hole like a normal fuck.

Girlie leaned forward, almost lying down with her butt up and me on top of her. She continued to arch her back and drive her soft butt cheeks up to me as I pumped away. I lay right down on top of her and reached around to grasp those lovely boobs of hers. Cupping the pair of them in my left forearm, I reached down with my right to stroke her pussy and diddle her clit. I know she enjoyed that because it caused her to arch her back and impale her ass right on me even more. I held her totally captive in my arms as I fucked her in the ass.